See The Sky
by Apollo Pompano
Summary: He loves planes. At first glance, they say it’s because he’s immature, childish. He stares at everything with a sense of wonder. But behind that gaze lies something more. A drabble of sorts. Really vague.


I really don't know what this is. For some reason I had a strong urge to write about America, and planes. Unfortunately, I don't know anything about planes. Sorry for that.

Reviews are loved~ Enjoy.

I don't own hetalia.

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He loves planes.

At first glance, they say it's because he's immature, childish. He stares at everything with a sense of wonder.

But behind that gaze lies something more.

Lightly stroking his blonde hair back, he slips an aviator's hat onto his head. He smiles, feeling the snug material embrace his skull. His chest is aching to fly. To feel the wind around him.

He climbs into his plane, an old fighter from wars long ago. There is no need for introductions. He knows this machine like the back of his hand. As soon as he sits down memories flood his sight, filling his mind with the senses of war.

Gaze softening, he slides a hand lightly over the controls. They are simple things, oddly primitive in today's world. But the treasures they hold are one of the most important things he has.

He starts up the old thing, and steers it out onto the runway. The morning light hits the metal sides and gives the plane a soft glow. He is suddenly jittery, nervous. It's been a while since he'd flown.

Would it still feel the same?

He begins the race to part from the ground, a determined look in his eye. The propeller slices circles rapidly, and the wheels spin so fast it looks as if they aren't moving at all. Trees and greenery move forward; slowly at first, but increasing in speed as the plane does.

He can feel his heartbeat, beating in time to the fast-paced rhythm. His muscles relax, telling him what to do.

He pulls up and the machine follows suit, bouncing once before diving headfirst into the sea above him.

The sky is still painted by the rising sun's glow, casting hues of red and purple along the clouds.

He's flying.

The ground waves goodbye, and he nods towards it before he holds his head up high towards the heavens.

The first thing he does is laugh.

It's been _ages_ since he's felt this. He savours each breath he takes, the chilled air making its way to his lungs with a refreshing sense of promise. He haphazardly sticks both of his arms outwards, gloveless fingers extended. The wind rushes past, swirling and crashing around his outstretched limbs.

He dares to close his eyes as well, focusing on feeling the breeze surrounding him. Waves of calm burst forth every time ivory skin meets the mix of oxygen. The cool but gentle feeling makes him feel like the skies had been his home for the entirety of his existence.

He suddenly wishes his bones were hollow.

The plane begins to fall and his eyes spring open in alarm. He catches the wheel in his hands and regains his balance, a sheepish smile placed upon his lips. But he quickly relaxes again, and before he realizes it he's back staring into the sky.

He lets his mind wander as he flies, dreaming in perfect calm. This is his sanctuary, the one place he can go where he will never be judged. All his worries melt away as he leaves the ground, and the endless boundaries of the atmosphere greet him with a sense of pure bliss.

Up here, he is free.

He remembers coming to this place a lot in the past, finding the air above ground the perfect place to think whenever he was troubled. It was as if all his answers lay inside the puffy clouds around him, for by the time he came down, his questions were always gone.

But today, he has no questions, no answers to find. Today he is up here out of longing.

He had woken up with a start in the small hours of the morning, with complete realization that he was entirely alone. He had needed something, anything to comfort him then, to surround him and whisper words of assertion into his stubborn ears.

Then, he remembered this place, _his_ place, and at once he knew where to go.

He comes back to himself, only to find wet tears falling down his face and into the sky. He quickly brushes them away with the sleeve of his jacket, as if he was trying to hide them from someone else.

Mumbling something about heroes never crying, he steers back towards the runway, deciding he has been up here for long enough. He scolds himself half-heartedly out of habit, and smiles. These are the moments where he becomes someone else. For a short time spent dancing through the arial sea, he had stopped being a nation, stopped being the will of the people, the blame for everything gone wrong. For a short time, he was fully and truly Alfred F. Jones, a human being.

Himself.

He steers downwards and braces for impact as the old machine bounces down the runway, coming to a slow stop in front of its home. The propeller makes one final buzz in protest of being taken out of the air, then it is silenced.

He remains in the cockpit of the fighter for a while longer, looking down, but not really seeing anything. He is filled with a peaceful sensation, one he had never felt since the last time he had been airborne. He takes the time to remember. He apologizes to no one in particular, giving one last nod toward the controls before lifting himself out of the plane.

He guides it back to its resting place, the soft smile still residing on this face.

The sun has risen by now, chasing the colour away as quickly as it had first appeared.

He stares at the sky in awe, hardly believing he had been immersed in it moments before.

The child-like look returns to his face as he turns away, securing his expression like a mask. He dares the world to judge him, possessing a sudden burst of strength and confidence that makes him shine.

He had touched the sky today. He had flown high, absorbing the rays of light from the sun and the confidence that lay in it. He no longer felt alone.

Let the world face him. He was ready.


End file.
